Friday, August 12, 2011

Speak not to the
Stubborn cuckoo
That perches hidden
Amidst the branches
Of the gulmohar in unfailing regularity,
As spring sets in our neighbourhood,

Beware
In a bad trade deal,
He’ll cajole you,
To barter your melodious voice
With his jarring one

Compose no more
Your original music
On your humming scale
When the cuckoo is at
An ear-shot distance
Camouflaged and all ears:
He has survived for ages
Taking the music-lovers for a ride
On pure piracy.

Convert not
The visible alphabet
Into exclusive and exquisite lyrics
When the cuckoo is lurking
In the thick-red foliage;
He is a clever plagiarist
And master in distance learning.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Imagine me
A solitary and ostracized
Vegetative cell
Of a barren loin
On a limitless sandy habitat,
Where my tender dream
Was sprouted.

I was dazed in my virgin dream
On being tossed
By the seasonal onslaught
Of blinding winds and winter
And sweeping shadows
Under a looming barren sky.

Between unending moments
I felt the primordial thirst
On my thorny throat,
With which sooner
I got myself familiarized.

I have touched with my palm
The surface of the damp Moon
On a naked firmament,
Playing her ancient game
Of hide and seek
On a periodic pattern.

During lingering nights,
Waiting on a forlorn hope,
I have also seen
The hollow and waterless
Eyes of the Pole Star
Nurturing in every blink
A fraction of a dream
Of a pregnant cloud
And pining for the chaotic drops
Of an earthly monsoon.

Me, having loneliness
For a company eternal,
And parched to the core
In the midst of a tropical May,
Waiting on my toes
For the breath and whisper
Of an Indian Sawan.

Nobody knows,Not even myselfAs to why a green leafFell apart from the mighty tree.Some say,The trunk was tender.Others say,The villain was the west wind.But everyone was silently sadTo see it lostAmong a plethora of dry leavesTossing their heads belowOn the swollen sod.

Nobody knows,Not even myselfAs to why suddenlyMy vision got blurredAnd I could not locateMy favourite starletThrough the windowEven during starry- nights.My mom terms itThe handiwork of an evil-spiritThat eyed on me.

Nobody knows,Not even myselfAs to why the poetStopped composingThe last couplet of the great epic,Some say,He has gone crazyOthers say,His fountain-penWas broken,Yet some other say, thatHis heart was broken.

Nobody knows,Not even myselfAs to why the cuckoo went dumb.Some say,The Spring ditched him.Others blame it on WinterBut all wonderedHow was it that last yearHe sang deep-throatedWhen there was neither Spring nor Winter ?

Nobody knows,Not even myselfAs to why they partedSupposedly on a fine morningWith throats choked and eyes moist.Some say,They parted silently.Other say,They did mutter some wordsOf the nature of suppressed whispers.When she turned her faceAnd he looked downward.Everybody looked askanceBut nobody asked.